To Exhale in Darkness
by Garciall
Summary: Usually Morty makes sure not to stare too long, too hard, but tonight, just tonight, with screams echoing in his ears whenever he closes his eyes, Morty can't find the energy to care. So he stares back and tries to drink his fill for the next day, the next week, the next hundred years. Rick and Morty stay the night in a motel.


He blows smoke out, the white curling in the still air, and lifts the butt to his lips again, letting the blunt end rest. He inhales, watches as the embers light up at the end, brilliant in the half-dark room, eating up the white. He imagines the smoke entering his body, his lungs and after a short pause exhales, watching as the white once again fills the space in front of him.

Morty doesn't know why and when he exactly started smoking. Don't get him wrong, he hasn't forgotten the bitter taste of his first cigarette, but he never caught the moment when it became a habit. The moment where it wasn't just a shared smoke at a party, the moment when a pack became a constant in one of his pockets. At first it was only a way to talk to other people, social smoking as they call. He hoped –

A strand of hair tickles his face and his hand moves to brush it back. As he lifts it, something trembles in front of him and he pauses. His hand is streaked with red and he can't seem to stop the shaking. He feels his lips twists into a grimace and he brushes his hair back, clutches at it until his head tingles painfully. He exhales and relaxes his muscles, releases his clenched hand and leaves it atop his folded legs, on his knees.

_Don't think about it._

He feels the smooth paper against his lips, inhales, lifts the ciggy to the side and taps the ash away, exhales. Ash crumbles away from the still lit end and he can't bring himself to care where it lands: on the ground, on the bed, on his jeans.

Morty remembers his first pack – the feeling of his stomach rolling and his knees shaking as he stood in front of some seniors remain fresh. The first stuttering request, the knowing smiles and a carefree 'sure', the night as he stood under the full moon and light-polluted sky, his hands shaking as he lit one cig in the backyard of his house. Since then, more often than not he has a pack with him and doesn't mind to share with others in his school or at parties. It makes for a great opportunity to start a conversation, too. _Lend a lighter? _He knows it's unhealthy. He knows it's dumb, it's hurtful. Nonetheless, it reminds him of Rick.

Red and blue flashes on the walls as a police car drives by. He rests his hands on his knees and turns his head to look at Rick – Rick sprawled in the armchair in front and to the side of him, next to the bed, Rick with his blue and streaked with red shirt loose against his body. His white coat is bunched under his still form and one of the sleeves is missing, leaving a jagged end. If he looks long and carefully enough, he can notice a slight rustling of fabric as Rick breathes the still air. If he looks really hard, Morty thinks he can see Rick's vein pulse in the side of his neck. There's a slight stubble and a smudge of red near his earlobe. Morty lifts the cig to his lips lazily. Rick doesn't seem like he cares that his clothes are dirty with dried blood. Morty's hands itch but he ignores it.

His eyes follow the curve of Rick's neck and he wonders if Rick can feel the trail of his eyes, like a feather brushing against his skin. His face is still, his lips are in a straight line and his eyes–

Rick's eyes are open, half-lidded and staring right at him, at the cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes are unnaturally blue, like the middle of the ocean, nothing but water around for miles, nothing to do but drown and drown and drown. It feels as if Rick is staring right at him, to the middle of his core and his thoughts. Or staring through him. Usually Morty makes sure not to stare too long, too hard, but tonight, just tonight, with screams echoing in his ears whenever he closes his eyes, Morty can't find the energy to care. So he stares back and tries to drink his fill for the next day, the next week, the next hundred years. Morty feels his hand tremble and he lifts the cig from his lips to exhale, wets his dry lips in the process.

"Share a smoke?" Rick asks.

Morty grabs the laying pack on the bed and throws it at Rick. The pack lands on Rick's chest. "The l-lighter is in the b- inside."

A lazy, slow hand moves from the side to lift the pack and shake one out. Rick snorts and lights it. A siren pierces the stillness from the direction of the window and Rick's face is bathed in red light until the car speeds down the street and the room is cast in pale shadows again. Weak sunlight seeps through the curtains to bath everything around them in soft, gray colors and a light pole outside their room is slowly coming to life.

"I-Is this what y-youngst - little shits smoke these days?" Rick complains.

"Like you d-don't smoke such shit, too." Morty says. There are worst shit he's seen Rick put in his body than mere human cigarettes.

He tastes burnt cotton on his tongue and snuffs the butt out right on the comforter by his side, one more mark on the bed's old sheets. He doesn't plan to sleep there any time soon anyways.

Rick goes back to staring at the ceiling, white occasionally trailing through his lips. Morty has seen his fair share of porn, from vanilla to hardcore dominance, from stomach tingling to heart-racing, yet the sight of Rick's loose form, the white stick dangling from his fingers is captivating, and he doesn't think he has seen anything more sexy than Rick in that moment. He can't – doesn't want to – move his eyes away from the pale lips and calm eyes so Morty rests his head on his knees. He tries not to think of all the no's and wrong's that come with it.

He could watch the lazy form of Rick forever and be content with just the gentle tingles below his stomach. Rick wets his lips and Morty's eyes involuntary follow the movement, as if hypnotized.

"Y-you're staring," Rick says and white smoke trails out of his lips to twist in the air around him. If Morty breathes long enough, will he inhale the same smoke that was just a moment ago in Rick's lungs?

"I know," Morty says and watches as Rick's cig burns down until no white is visible and only an orange end is left, stuffed out on the side of the armchair.

"Weird lil'-little shit." Rick's voice grinds out and he can see as his Adam's apple bobbles. Morty clutches at his knees. _Look away. Move. __Act, for once in your cursed life, normal._ The room has grown darker and shadows hide Rick's face from him.

His body feels frozen and fear locks up his arms, but he can't stop staring. He can't see anymore where Rick is looking, can't see what expression on his face he's wearing.

The artificial light outside flickers, once, twice, before failing and the room is cast into almost pitch black, Rick's body a mere shadow in the dark, mingling with the silhouette of the armchair.

Something smacks against his leg and Morty startles, his whole body jerks. He feels around the sheets and feels a slick box brush against his fingers. His pack. He fiddles with it. Should he light another one? He can hear faint sirens in the distance and he listens to them grow louder, nearer.

For a fleeting moment Rick's form is illuminated in red and glowing red eyes stare right at him. The light moves away and Morty can't see anything anymore, but his heart is racing. In the stillness, quietness of the room, his heartbeat is thunderous. It's so loud, Rick must hear it.

Morty hears faint footsteps, muffled by the carpet, but it doesn't compare to the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

"Move." Rick's voice is right next to him and Morty inhales, his body shudders. His rushing heart tries to beat its way out of his chest.

The bed dips and Morty feels something brush against his leg. He can see Rick's faint silhouette next to him on the bed. It moves closer, stills. Morty lets go of his legs and unfolds them, feels soft hair brush against jean and warm weight of Rick's head settle on his thigh.

"We'll be here a while y-yet."

Morty extends his trembling hands and brushes Rick's hair away from his face. "I know," he says and tries not to clutch too tightly.

His erratic breathing is too loud in the still room, but when he moves his hand lower, he can feel the movement as Rick swallows, can feel warm breath against his skin. He doesn't care if he never saw sunlight again, just as long as he could feel warm skin beneath his palms. A beat, two later the bundle under his arms moves and he lets his arms fall to his side. The bed dips, a dark shadow looms over him.

Morty lies down and the bed next to his head dips as Rick's arms, elbows confine him, as Rick braces himself above. He swallows against the dryness of his mouth but it's useless.

The dark shape grows in size until warmth touches his lips and Morty's muscles contract, jerk, his eyes close, his breath leaves him only to rush back as the weight against his lips moves away.

_Move, move, goddammit, don't let it end like that._ His hands shoot out and grab into the fabric of Rick's lab coat and he jerks the dark shape down until warmth touches his lips again. If just this once.

They're dry and still and Morty's heart is fluttering like a wild bird caught in a cage. Morty moves his lips slowly, shyly and feels an answering slide, just as hesitant. The tip of a warm tongue brushes against his lower lip and Morty shudders. The tongue grows bolder, licks against his lips more insistently and Morty gasps as a particularly strong wave of arousal shoots down his spine. The tongue licks against his own and Morty clutches at Rick's coat, at his arms. Should he do something? He moves his tongue in answer, slowly slowly. Rick sucks at his lower lip, as if to encourage it and Morty clenches his legs together, his erection strains against his jeans. Rick's tongue returns and brushes against his and Morty feels small electric shocks travel through his body, zigzagging around and leaving warmth in their trail. He can feel a pressure start building in his abdomen.

Rick leans back and warm air whispers against his spit-slicken lips as he breathes.

"W-w-why?" he whispers.

"Because..." Rick trails off and Morty thinks he's not going to answer, that he's going to kiss him again, when warm breath brushes against his skin. "Because I want-wanted to. You have a b-b-bad-shit habit of wetting your lips when you smoke, you're gonna leave all your butts wet."

Rick leans back and moves away from the bed and the armchair groans as Rick settles himself back into it.

"Share a smoke?" Rick says and Morty sits up, finds the pack next to his side and shakes two cigarettes out. He licks his lips and lifts the butt, lights it and inhales. He leans over and extends the lit ciggy as far as he can in Rick's direction. Dark shapes in the form of arms take the cig from him and Morty goes back to his postion, draws one leg closer so he can lean an arm against his knee. He lights his second one and inhales.

He blows smoke out, knows the white curls in the air, and lifts the butt to his lips again, letting the blunt end rest. Only the glowing end is visible in the room. He inhales, imagines the smoke entering his body, his lungs, and after a short pause exhales, imagining as the white once again fills the space in front of him.

A whisper of air answers him from the direction of the armchair and Morty dreams, if it was light enough, he could see their exhaled smoke mix together as they never could.


End file.
